Frozen Tracks (35 page)

'Aneta is no doubt just as keen to speak to you as
you are to speak to her, Erik.'

He drove round the Näset roundabout. A car ahead
of him had a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. It
looked a bit desperate, a last-minute transaction.

'I think Bergort beats his daughter,' said Winter.

'Shall we bring him in?' asked Ringmar without hesitation.

'I'm damned if I know, Bertil.'

'How probable is it?'

'I'm quite certain, in fact. The girl made it very
obvious between the lines. With her body language.'

'What does her mother say?'

'She knows. Or suspects it in any case.'

'But she hasn't said anything?'

'You know how it is, Bertil.'

Silence.

Oh my God, what have I said? thought Winter.

'That wasn't what I meant, Bertil.'

'OK, OK.'

'I tried to talk to her, but she seems to be scared as
well. Or wants to protect him. Or both.'

'He seems to have a solid alibi,' said Ringmar.

They had checked up on all the parents involved, as
far as possible. The problem with Bergort was that he
didn't work regular hours and had a lot of freedom.
Was Magnus Himmler Bergort, as Halders called him
(among other things), something more than just a childbeater?

'Bring him in,' said Winter.

'Will he be in his office?'

'Yes.'

'OK.'

'I'm going to the Waggoners' now,' said Winter.

They hung up. Winter drove along the main road
leading to the other end of Änggården. Here comes
Father Christmas. Have you all been good little boys
and girls?

The traffic was denser than he'd thought. Normally
he would be sitting with a cup of excellent coffee and
a large sandwich of freshly roasted ham at this time –
at least, that had been normal for the last three years.
We'll never get through it all, Angela always said. This
is the most important bit, he would say. The first slice
after roasting.

No Christmas ham this year, not here in Gothenburg.
No Christmas tree, not at the moment at least. He saw
several desperate men with Christmas trees on their car
roofs, an odd sight for somebody on their first visit
from, say, Andalucía. This is Sweden: take up thy fir
tree and drive. Where to? Why?
Porqué?
He suddenly
felt an intense longing for some peace and quiet, a bit
of food, a drop of alcohol, a cigarillo, music, his woman,
his child, his . . . life, the other one. He could see Maja's
face, the photograph of Micke on Bengt Johansson's
desk. Simon Waggoner. And just as suddenly the longing
had vanished; he was back at work. He was on his way,
on the move. You can never let yourself stop, as
Birgersson used to say, but less often now. Never stand
still. Never lack faith, never doubt, never let it get on
top of you, never run away, never cry, always put up
with everything. BULLSHIT, Winter thought. Birgersson
had also got the message, but later.

He turned off at the Margretebergs junction. The
attractive wooden houses were at their best. Torches
were burning in the cautious daylight. It was a clear
day. The sun could be glimpsed here and there in the
gaps between the houses. There was still a thin layer of
snow on paths and lawns. God was smiling.

Winter saw some children in a playground in the
centre of town. There were a lot of grown-ups with
them. Two men turned to look as he drove slowly past
in his black Mercedes. Who was he, what was he doing
here?

He parked outside the Waggoners' house.

A wreath was hanging on the front door.

There was a smell of exotic spices in the hall.

'For us it's tomorrow that's the big day,' said Paul
Waggoner with his English accent as he took Winter's
overcoat and hung it on a coat-hanger. 'Tomorrow's
Christmas Day.'

'Is that the pudding I can smell?' asked Winter.

'Which one?' asked Waggoner. 'We're making several.'
He gestured towards the living room. 'My parents have
come over from England.'

I'll phone Steve Macdonald when I get home, Winter
thought. Or maybe from the office. Merry Christmas
and all that, but maybe he can do some thinking for
me, before all that pudding gets to work on him.

'How's Simon?'

'He's doing pretty well,' said Waggoner. 'He's speaking
only English at the moment, has been for a few days
now. It just happened. Perhaps he wanted to prepare
himself for his grandparents.'

'I'd better speak English to him then,' said Winter.

'Perhaps,' said Waggoner. 'Will that be a problem?'

'I don't know. It might be an advantage.'

It was the same room as before. Simon seemed more
relaxed, recognised Winter.

'Will you get any Christmas gifts this evening?' Winter
asked.

'Today
and
tomorrow,' said Simon.

'Wow.'

'Grandpa doesn't really like it.'

'And this is from me,' said Winter, handing over a
parcel he'd had in his shoulder bag.

The boy took it, obviously pleased. There was a gleam
in his eyes.

'Oh, thank you very much.'

'You're welcome.'

'Thank you,' said Simon again.

He opened the little parcel. Winter had thought about
giving the boy a watch to replace the one that had disappeared.
Should he or shouldn't he? In the end he'd
decided not to. It could have been regarded as a bribe
in return for information. By Simon. Perhaps it was.

Simon held up the car, which was one of the latest
models. It was an expensive toy, with a lot of details.
The word POLICE was painted on the side. He couldn't
very well give the boy a remote-controlled Mercedes.
CID model.

The police car could be driven everywhere where
there was no threshold in the way.

'Want to try it?' Winter asked, handing over the
control panel that was hardly any bigger than a
matchbox.

Simon put the car down on the floor, and Winter
showed him the controls without actually touching
anything himself. The car set off, and crashed into the
nearest object. Winter bent down and turned it in the
right direction. Simon reversed, then drove forward. He
switched on the siren, which was very loud for such a
little car.

I wonder if he heard the siren when he was lying on
the ground? Winter thought. When they found him?

'Great,' said Simon, looking up with a smile.

'Let me try it,' said Winter.

It was fun.

Winter sat on the floor and steered the police car
through tunnels that were chairs and tables and a
sofa. There was a blue light rotating on the roof. He
switched on the siren as the car went past the door.
He switched it off.

Simon had agreed to accompany Winter to the place
where he had been found. That was how Winter had
preferred to see it: agreed to accompany him. It felt
important for Winter.

He knew that it was most often difficult for a child
under seven to recreate an outdoor setting.

He had driven along various roads, back and forth.
Where had the mister been taking Simon? To his
home? Was he interrupted? Did anything happen?
Did he see anything? Anybody? Did anybody see him?
Did the mister throw Simon out of the car close to
his home?

The police had made door-to-door enquiries, everywhere,
it seemed. Gone back to places where there had
been no answer the first time round.

They had made enquiries along possible routes the
car might have taken: makes of car, times, what the
driver looked like. In-car decorations. Rear-view mirrors.
Items hanging from rear-view mirrors. Green, perhaps.
A bird, perhaps. A parrot, perhaps.

They had been in touch with the Swedish Motor Vehicle
Inspection Company. Repair workshops. Salerooms. Realestate
companies. Manned multi-storey car parks.

They had checked all the cars owned by staff at the
day nursery. Cars that had been parked nearby, were
parked nearby.

Simon had tried to explain something. They were
sitting on the floor.

Winter tried to interpret it. He knew that several
studies suggested that a child's memory was very
consistent and reliable when referring to situations
that had affected its emotions and had been stressful.
He knew this, irrespective of what university
researchers might say about the ignorance of him and
his colleagues.

Between the ages of three and four, children have a
particularly good memory for things that are emotionally
charged and central to a situation, while they can
forget details that are less important in the context.

Several years after being kidnapped, children could
still supply accurate details of things central to the
abduction, but often got things wrong with regard to
peripheral details.

That meant that the details the children spoke about
were significant.

Nevertheless, everything had to be regarded with
scepticism, of course, and carefully considered. He had
heard of a case where a five-year-old boy had been asked
to describe what he had seen and experienced while
with his abductor. The boy made some gestures and
said he had seen 'one of those things that have lots of
telegraph wires hanging from it'. The interviewer took
him out in a car, in the hope that the boy would be
able to point out what he meant. In the end he indicated
a high-voltage electricity pylon, broad at the base
and getting narrower towards the top.

But in fact he'd been trying to describe something
else. In the abductor's house the police found a souvenir,
a model of the Eiffel Tower. That was what the boy had
meant.

Simon hadn't pointed anything out, hadn't spoken
about anything. But was there something? That was
what Winter was trying to find out now.

He had tried to transport the boy back to that horrendous
journey again. So far Simon hadn't said anything
about it.

'Did you see anything from the window in the car?'
Winter asked.

Simon hadn't answered. Winter suggested they should
park the police car in the multi-storey car park under
one of the chairs.

'You're a good driver,' said Winter.

'Can I drive again?' asked Simon.

'Yes, soon,' said Winter.

Simon was sitting on the carpet, moving his feet as
if practising swimming strokes.

'When you went with that man,' said Winter. He
could see that Simon was listening. 'Did you go for a
long ride?'

Simon nodded now. Nodded!

'Where did you go?'

'Everywhere,' said Simon.

'Did you go out into the countryside?'

Simon shook his head.

'Did you go close to home?'

Simon shook his head again.

'Do you think you could show me? If we went
together in my car?'

Simon didn't shake his head, nor did he nod.

'Your mum and dad could go with us, Simon.'

'Followed,' Simon said suddenly, as if he hadn't heard
Winter.

'What did you say, Simon?'

'He said follow,' said Simon.

'Did he say follow?'

'Yes.'

'I don't quite understand,' said Winter.

Simon looked at the car again, then at Winter.

'We followed,' said Simon now.

Winter waited for the continuation that never came.

'What did you follow, Simon?'

'Follow the tracks,' said Simon.

'The tracks?' asked Winter. 'What tracks do you
mean?'

He was sitting in front of a boy who was translating
into English what somebody had said to him in Swedish.
Assuming they had been speaking Swedish. Or had they
spoken English? He couldn't ask that just now.

'What tracks do you mean, Simon?' Winter asked.

'Follow the TRACKS,' said Simon again, and Winter
could see that the boy was growing more agitated, the
trauma was coming back.

Simon burst into tears.

Winter knew full well that he ought not to sit a
weeping child on his knee, ought not to hold him, or
touch him during the interview. That would be unprofessional.
But he ignored that and lifted Simon on to
his knee. Just as he'd tried to console Bengt Johansson
the previous day, now he did the same to Simon
Waggoner.

He knew he wouldn't be able to keep going, not for
too much longer. He would need consoling himself. He
saw himself on the flight to Málaga, a picture of the
future for a fraction of a second. What state would he
be in by then?

Simon's parents made no complaint when he left, but
he felt very guilty. What had he done to the boy?

'We're just as anxious as you,' said Barbara Waggoner.
'It'll be all right.'

Simon raised one hand when Winter left, holding the
car in the other one. An elderly man, Paul Waggoner's
father, eyed Winter up and down from beneath bushy
eyebrows, and mumbled his name in a thick accent as
he held out his hand. Tweed, port-wine nose, slippers,
unlit smelly pipe. The works. Winter folded his Zegna
overcoat over his arm, fastened a button in his suit
jacket, collected his belongings and went out to the car.
He had taken his video equipment into the house with
him, but hadn't used it.

His mobile rang before he'd got as far as Linnéplatsen.

'Any news?' asked Hans Bülow. 'You said we were
going to help each other. In a meaningful way.'

'Will there be any newspapers published tomorrow?'
Winter asked.

'
GT
appears every day nowadays,' said Bülow. 'Every
day all year round.'

'Shouldn't there be a law to prevent that?'

'How's it going, Erik? You sound a bit tired.'

'I must have a think,' Winter said. 'About what to
publish. I'll ring you this afternoon.'

'Will you really?'

'I said I would, didn't I? You have got my highly
secret professional mobile number, haven't you? You
can get through to me at any time.'

'Yes, yes, calm down. Bye for now.'

Shortly afterwards the phone rang again. Winter thought
he recognised the breathing even before the caller spoke.

'Any more news?' asked Bengt Johansson.

'Where are you phoning from, Bengt?'

'Ho . . . From home. I've just got back.' He could
hear the breathing again. 'Nobody's called me.' More
breathing. 'Has anything happened? Anything new?'

'We're getting tip-offs all the time,' said Winter.

'Are there no witnesses?' asked Johansson. 'The place
was flooded with people. Has nobody contacted you?'

'Lots of people have been in touch,' said Winter.

'And?'

'We're going through all the tips.'

'There might be something there,' said Johansson.
'You can't just put them to one side.'

'We're not putting anything to one side,' said Winter.

'There might be something there,' said Johansson
again.

'How's Carolin?' Winter asked.

'She's alive,' said Johansson. 'She'll live.'

'Have you spoken to her?'

'She doesn't want to speak. I don't know if she can.'

Winter could hear the pause. It sounded as if
Johansson was smoking. Winter hadn't smoked at all
so far today. I haven't had a smoke today. The craving
had vanished without trace.

'Can she ha . . . have done something?' asked
Johansson. 'Could it have been her?'

'I don't think so, Bengt.'

No. Carolin wasn't involved, he thought. They had
started off by including that as a possibility. Everything
horrendous was a possibility. But they hadn't found
anything to suggest that there was any substance in the
thought, not as far as she was concerned, nor in the
circumstances. She was overcome by guilt, but of a
different kind.

He drove along the Allé. There were remains of snow
in the trees. Traffic was heavy, the shops were still open.
Service was good. There were more pedestrians on the
Allé than on a normal weekday, carrying more parcels.
Of course. We are slowly becoming a population of
consumers rather than citizens, but you don't need to
moan about that today, Erik.

He stopped at a red light. A child wearing a Father
Christmas hat passed by accompanied by a woman, and
the child waved at him. Winter looked at his watch.
Two hours to go before the traditional Christmas Donald
Duck programme on the telly. Would this youngster get
home in time? Was it as important now as it used to
be? Winter wouldn't be home in time. Elsa would be
able to watch last year's Donald on her Grandma's video.
He'd made sure the cassette was in their luggage.

Still red. A tram rattled past, festive flags flying. Lots
of passengers. He watched it forging ahead. Another
tram approached from the opposite direction, a number
4. A bit of snow between the lines. The tracks for trams
heading in both directions were side by side here. In the
middle of the road. It was possible for a car driver to
follow them.

The tracks.

Was it the tram lines Simon Waggoner had been
talking about? That might have been a question
Winter would have asked if they had continued their
conversation, but the boy had started crying and Winter
had brought the interview to a close and not continued
with his line of thought.

He'd be able to phone shortly: 'Please ask Simon
if . . .'

Had they been following the tram lines, Simon and
his abductor? A particular route, perhaps? Was it a
game? Was it of significance? Or were 'the tracks' something
completely different? Tracks on a CD? Railway
tracks? Some other kind of tracks? Fantasy tracks in a
mad abductor's imagination? Simon's own tracks. He
cou—

Angry toots from the car behind. He looked up, saw
the green light and set off.

A group of young men were playing football on
Heden. They seemed to be having fun.

He parked in his allocated spot. As usual, the Advent
candles were burning in every other window of police
headquarters – the money-saving symmetry that Halders
had gone on about.

Reception was deserted by its usual queue of the good
and the bad: the owners of stolen cycles, police officers,
legal-aid lawyers on their way to and from the usual
yo-yo discussions about will-he-won't-he be released,
car owners, car thieves, other criminals at various stages
of professional achievement, various categories of victim.

The corridors echoed with Christmas – the lonely
version of Christmas. The lights on the tree at the entrance
to CID had gone out. Winter poked at the switch, and
they came on again.

He bumped into Ringmar, who was on the way out
of his office.

'What's the latest, Bertil?'

'Nothing new from my nearest and dearest, if that's
what you mean.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I've tried to get hold of Smedsberg junior, but failed,'
said Ringmar.

'Are you coming home with me this evening?' asked
Winter.

'Are you expecting to be able to go home?'

'If going home is on the cards.'

'I hope not,' said Ringmar.

'Would you prefer to sleep here?'

'Who needs sleep?'

'You, by the looks of it.'

'It's only young chaps like you who need to be dropping
off to sleep all the time,' said Ringmar. 'But we
can rent a video and while away the gloom of Christmas
Eve in your living room.'

'You can choose,' said Winter.

'
Festen
,' said Ringmar. 'A shit-hot film. It's about a
fath—'

'I know what it's about, Bertil. Pack it in now, for
Christ's sake! Otherwise we'll—'

'Perhaps I'd better go into hiding right away,' said
Ringmar. 'Are you going to report me to the police?'

'Should I?' asked Winter.

'No.'

'Then I won't.'

'Thank you.'

'Have we got Bergort?'

'No. I didn't get round to—'

'Where is he?'

'Nobody knows.'

'Is there nobody in his office?'

'Yes, a few people. But he never turned up.'

'At home?'

'He hasn't come back yet, according to his wife.'

'Damnation! I should never have let him slip through
our fingers. But I didn't tell him to make sure he was
at home. I thought the girl wou—'

'You did the right thing, Erik. He'd have done a
runner even so.'

'We'd better send out an alert right away.'

'But he's not our kidnapper,' said Ringmar.

'He's been abusing his daughter,' said Winter. 'That's
enough to set the police on him as far as I'm concerned.
We'll have to see about the other business.'